Newly married Iraqi couples arrive at a hotel for a mass wedding reception in central Baghdad. Photograph: Ali Yussef/AFP/Getty Images

Last week we were preparing for the wedding of my youngest cousin with her mahar ceremony. Dressed in a white robe, a tray with seven plates of white things to eat in front of her, and with a happily married woman sprinkling sugar on a white scarf above her head, my cousin Zina was asked by a cleric standing out of sight if she wished to marry the man chosen for her.

As tradition dictates that women should never be too eager to get married - even though the role of a wife is the only role the same tradition gives them - she is supposed to wait until the question has been asked 14 times before she says yes. It is a lovely little ceremony and in Iraq it is distinctly Shia and has to be administered by a Shia cleric.

The last time a relative of mine had a mahar ceremony was in 2007. Then, the cleric had to be smuggled into the neighbourhood in civilian clothes as the bride's family were Shia living in a Sunni area. The cleric was taken to the house next door where he changed into the full gear: white turban, black cloak. Batman would have been envious of this transformation.

But having changed into his religious clothes, he then refused to step outside to walk to the house where the ceremony was taking place. He had to be hauled over the fence. Not exactly the most dignified of entrances, but it gave everyone a much-needed laugh. Such a joyous ceremony should never be conducted in so much secrecy. It didn't end there. It was late and the cleric was getting nervous; instead of waiting for the question to be asked 14 times, he stopped after the fifth and told all present that he knew that the bride was a modest young woman from a respected family, but there wasn't time for all this, so could she please answer the question quickly. At the time everyone felt sad that things had come to this.

In those days clerics were not the only ones having a difficult time when it came to getting people hitched. Even getting to meet someone of the opposite sex had become difficult. Religious zealots patrolled places where men and women met for a stroll and a chat, demanding papers to prove the nature of a couple's relationship. A young couple passing through a checkpoint in a car were liable to be asked for such papers too, and famously a decree was distributed in one of Baghdad's vegetable markets banning stalls from putting cucumbers beside tomatoes, as one was regarded as male and the other female. But thankfully this dark cloud has passed. Not only are the benches in Baghdad's parks full of happy couples, but once again women feel safe enough to move around the city on their own.

The nice shops in al-Mansour are full of young women browsing through the latest imported fashions. Now they are actually able to wear what they buy, after a period when they all seemed to be giving in to the headscarf/ankle-length skirt combo deemed acceptable by the same people who decided that cucumbers and tomatoes were not allowed to sit side by side.

And with the re-emergence of Baghdad's girls, Baghdad boys are dropping the scowls and once again showing off their inner peacocks. I can tell you with great pleasure that using a hair product is no longer the fastest way to get your head and eyebrows shaved by vigilante checkpoints. Baghdad kids are embracing hair gel once again.

Life here is still full of challenges, but for us, my cousin's mahar ceremony was another step closer to a more normal existence.